The Fairy Ring
by California gal
Summary: Another story from the past... this time from Avebury...


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The Fairy Ring

By California Gal

***

This is my take on why Roxton was so stunned to learn that Marguerite had been in his neck of the woods as a child. Slight spoilers for True Spirit and The Knife (you should recognize the last scene). 

***

"John!"

John Roxton's stride faltered just a little on the path, but he forced one more step.

"John Richard!"

He knew he had no choice. Seventeen years of training would not allow him to ignore her. It had been his fault, anyway, for choosing this route to the stables. He should have known she would be in the garden on a lovely late summer day such as this. He halted and turned. "Yes, mother?"

She was seated in the smaller gazebo, shaded by the small pink roses gloriously blooming on the vine that crept up over the framework. John knew that, nearer, the scent of those roses would be heady. He remained on the path, some dozen feet away, hoping that this would be brief.

"Are you going riding?" The question was superfluous, because she could see his garb, the polished black riding boots, the crop in his slim hand. Her younger son had inherited much of her looks, and she often wondered if somehow she did not favor him because of that, although she tried very hard not to show that favoritism. Her looks, and his father's adventuresome spirit.

"Yes, ma'am." He made a slight movement with his shoulders, testing to see if she would halt him from moving on. Of course she did.

"Come here a moment," she invited, putting a marker in the book she had been reading, and resting it on her lap. Her summer afternoon gown was pastel green, accenting the pale golden complexion, the greenish hue of her eyes. She had been a beauty in her day, and so far as her younger son was concerned, she was still the most beautiful woman he knew.

Unable to disobey, he walked across the neatly cropped green grass, and entered the small structure, sitting across from her. The rose scent wafted around him. With his gangly legs, knees jutting above the low seat, he was aware his pose was not nearly so graceful as hers. He tried to think of something to say which would direct the conversation away from where he knew she was going to take it, but nothing came to mind, especially under her direct gaze.

"Is William not accompanying you?"

"No." He attempted an easy, uncaring nonchalance, but as usual, she saw right through him. He often thought she was never so perceptive where William was concerned, and wondered why.

"Where is he?"

"With Father. In the study."

Her fingers tapped restlessly on the book, studying his handsome young face. She was quite aware that already young ladies were noticing the younger son of the earl, and no wonder. He had a dash about him, beyond his physical attributes, that drew glances from old and young of both sexes. Probably a good thing, she often considered, that he would not inherit the title. A title along with everything else might be just a little too much.

"What are they doing?" she asked casually, knowing the answer.

John waved an idle hand. "Usual thing. Father is instructing William on being the earl."

"It's necessary," she said softly. He looked away from her, but she did not miss the flash of bitterness and pain in his eyes, the eyes that were the window to his soul.

"I know."

"Johnny, your father loves you. Just as much as he loves William."

"I know. But" His words faltered, and he bit his lip a moment, unwilling to allow the emotions he was feeling escape just now.

His mother leaned across and put a soft hand on his knee. "My dear, your father and I have talked about this. He regrets that he must spend more time with William than with you. But he is also aware of his own mortality." Her husband was fifteen years her senior, and had suffered a minor attack a year ago. Though he seemed in the best of health now

John let out a long sigh. "Mother, I know all that. I'm not angry, or blaming anyone, but"

"But you are hurt," she smiled, pulling her hand back. She considered for a long moment, waiting until his gaze returned directly to her face, a little bit of confusion on his countenance because of the silence. "I'm going to tell you a secret, Johnny. You must promise me not to reveal it to anyone, and you must act suitably surprised when your father reveals it to you."

His dark brows furrowed. "Yes of course. What is it, Mother?" Was she going to tell him his father was ailing again? Father seemed well, but he had seem so before that frightening episode that put him in bed for several days. Having never witnessed their father pale and helpless, it had been unsettling for both sons.

"What is it you want more than anything else?"

The brows knit again, but with less worry and more puzzlement now. "More than Africa?" The brown eyes tinged with green widened. "Mother?"

Once more she reached across, this time taking his hand. "On your birthday, Father will tell you. But I could not bear to have you think that he was caring less for your happiness than William's. That's all I will tell you for now. Father must have the pleasure of explaining the details. It was his idea, I assure you." The last thing she wanted was for her young son to be tramping about on that wild continent. "But remember–it's our secret."

Barely containing himself from whooping aloud and even dancing about the garden, John jumped to his feet, leaning down then to kiss his mother on both cheeks. She loved the way his young face had lightened now. It was more than just the thought of his cherished dream coming true, she knew. He had talked about Africa since a small lad, when he first read stories and saw pictures in the books. He would have gotten there sooner or later, one way or another, but to learn that his father thought enough to grant this dream well, she knew he would sleep easier, and it might well forestall hard feelings between the brothers.

She could not tell him the remainder of the story, that his father had been the one who noticed John's despondency, and had suggested that she pick a moment to tell him the "secret." The earl truly regretted that he had to ignore one son in favor of the other. He also was aware that had William more interest in the behind-the-scenes dealings that went with being a landowner and landlord, he might not require so much attention. William was willing to accept the title, but he would much rather live in London where he could attend theaters, concerts, museums, and lectures, where he could find company that enjoyed these similar pursuits. 

Most of all, she could not tell John something else his father had said during the conversation about revealing the African trip, something the earl had commented upon more than once during the lives of his two sons. "I believe our sons were born in the wrong order, my dear." She knew what he meant. John was so much more like his father. He wanted adventure, to see the world, but he would never neglect his duties as Lord Roxton. The elder lord had spent many years traveling, which was one reason he had married rather late in life, but he always came home to attend to business. She liked to think that her own spirit of independence and adventure was what attracted him, since she had been rather beyond the usual marrying age herself.

"Thank you, Mother!" John beamed down at her. "Thank you for telling me! Now I'd best go for that ride, and regain my composure. If I should face Father at this moment I'm afraid I'd give it all away!"

"Ride like the wind, Johnny," she said, knowing that that was exactly what he would do. "And give the Devil's Chair a pat for me." Lady Roxton was aware of the site at which her younger son's rides generally ended. He was oddly drawn to that area, and had been all his young years.

He kissed her cheek again, and strode off, whistling cheerfully. Africa! He was going to see Africa! But best of all, his father was the proponent. He knew quite well that his mother never favored the idea. In fact, considering the influence his mother usually had over his father, it was quite amazing that this would take place. But she would not have told him so if it was not true.

Virtually all his life, John had known that his elder brother was being trained to take over the title, the reins to the family holdings. He himself would inherit some lesser property. That did not bother him. His goal was to see the world, and he knew that the income that would be coming to him one day would be more than adequate for that. To have a small home to come back to in order to rest and refit would be all he required. And he knew he would always be welcome at the family home. He and William were very different in personality, but they were still brothers.

The stable boy had seen him coming, and the stallion was saddled and ready when John reached the paddock. The big reddish horse pranced in excitement. Like his rider, he enjoyed a good gallop, and it was all that John could do to hold him in until he cleared the area of the buildings. Once in an open field, he loosened the reins and leaned low, his longish hair rippling.

Also once out of range of his home, he let out a couple of shouts of joy, rather amazed at his own lightheartedness. He had not been quite aware of how much it had bothered him lately that Father and William spent so much time together. Oh, he could have gone along to visit the tenant farmers, or sat with the pair while they discussed the economics and ethics of being a primary landowner, as he had done in the past. It was not that the subject bored him. More that he felt unnecessary. Father would never ask if he understood the concepts, or if he had any suggestions; it did not matter.

But his father was arranging for a trip to Africa! For half a second, John's joy faltered as he wondered whether William would be included. But no matter. In the first place, he doubted it. William had no interest in such a trek. He would rather visit London and attend to the gay social life. He might have an inclination to see Rome or Paris, but definitely not Africa. No, very likely, it would be just John and his father. For the first time in John's recollection, just the two of them.

The stallion slowed of its own accord, and John smiled. The horse knew it as well as he did. They were approaching the fairy rings, the stretch of land perhaps a mile wide where a dozen or so strange stones were set about in a circular pattern. Many legends were associated with those stones, one of which gave the area its name of "fairy stones." Older people swore that the mythical creatures known as fairies danced on the green sward within the stones–though none would admit to seeing them with their own eyes. 

John had talked to scholars who periodically visited the stones–they called it a circle henge. A henge, they informed him, was basically an earthen enclosure without standing stones. A stone circle would contain standing stones only, while a circle henge contained both. He had explored this area thoroughly since his childhood, and sometimes he thought he would be able to wander through it blindfolded, touching every stone without missing one.

His favorite was one at the north edge, near a shady tree, which had been nicknamed the Devil's Chair because of a dip in one side. Sometimes he sat in that "chair" and just allowed his mind to float away, thinking of knights and dragons, of lions and tigers, the great deserts of northern Africa, the wild jungles of South America. He might never see a dragon, but he knew he would encounter the other beasts one day.

Dismounting, he dropped the reins of the stallion and gazed around the green sward. It had been scythed recently, he noticed. His father took care that the place was well tended, since it drew visitors, both scholarly and the merely curious. The people from the university had advanced any number of theories about the origin of the stones. The local people would have none of the logical. They knew the stones had been placed by some sort of magic.

John knew nothing about that. He only knew he felt comfortable here. Once in a while he considered speaking to his father about including this portion of the estate in his inheritance, perhaps trading for some other holdings. But he had not yet done that, not sure what the reaction would be, or how he would explain it if asked to do so. After all, this area could not be plowed, although occasionally sheep were brought in to help keep the grass down.

On the far side was the stone kirk, abandoned now, that had been the place of worship for the earls and their families for many generations. The roof and one wall had caved during a storm even before the present earl was born, and it had never been restored, considered too dangerous. John and William had used the place as their fort, accompanied by sons of farmers, and held many a wild battle there in their younger days.

Was there some lad there now? John stared hard, but decided that the movement he had thought he saw was merely the waving shadow of some plant or a cloud. He was sure boys still played there. Why not? It was a wonderful place to use one's imagination.

With a sigh, he settled down into the "chair." It was not the most comfortable of resting places; the rough rock poked into his back, through the weight of his jacket. Yet that jacket also padded the sharpness. He knew from experience that removing the jacket was not a good idea!

Africa! He was going to see Africa! And soon, apparently. Father would never announce it if he meant that the trip was years away. The coming fall, in just weeks, John would be entering the university, something he was not exactly looking forward to. He was not a dull student, simply a disinterested one. He learned what he had to learn, took the examinations and passed–if barely. He knew his tutors and teachers shook their heads, and that they told his parents that if only John would apply himself well, perhaps if he was going to inherit the title, he would have. But he had no need for honors and laurels that accompany graduation at the top of the class.

So perhaps Father meant the trip to take place soon. Was it possible? His birthday would not be until January, four long months away. Too late this summer to take a trip that extensive. So very likely

John Roxton opened his eyes and blinked for a moment in the bright sun. Had he dozed off? The stallion was still grazing, but perhaps ten feet further away than where he had been when his rider dismounted. The horse had lifted its head momentarily just as his master roused, but now went back to the succulent grass. John was certain that the steed had not made any noise that disturbed him. What had?

The childish laughter rang out, and he turned his head to stare across the green. And he stared hard, blinking twice or three times. Was he still asleep? 

Carefully he put his hand against the hard cool stone, felt the jagged edges bite into the flesh of his palm. That was real enough. But 

He got to his feet, never taking his eyes off the scene out on the sunlit grass. A girl–at least he thought it must be a girl–was dancing barefoot on the grass, her long dark hair flying as she twirled, and her white skirts whipping about thin legs. She was not more than ten, he thought, and he was quite certain he had never seen her before.

As he watched, he became aware that the white dress she was wearing was actually her petticoat and shift. Somewhere she had shed what was probably darker, heavier garb so as to engage in this light-stepped romp.

Her clothing, or lack of it, was not the issue right now. John Roxton found he could barely breathe as he gazed upon the tableau. What was this? Had the news about Africa addled his brain so much that he was now seeing things? It could not be possible that a dozen fairies were dancing in a circle around the child.

Yet he saw these shapes forms beings of light that manifested themselves, faded, and came back again, time and again, sometimes holding hands in a ring around the girl, sometimes flitting off–yes, above the ground–by themselves. He could not quite see wings, yet had an awareness that wings were there. Butterfly wings, yet gossamer, nonexistent.

The girl shrieked with laughter as several of the forms tightened a ring about her, not quite touching. Glee was on the creatures' faces as well. John could sense it more than see it. It was as though they were frolicking with one of their own. To be sure, the girl was not frightened, and she obviously saw them as well.

Saw them. John stood very still, his breathing almost halted. He was seeing no, this must be some sort of dream. Yet he could not remember a dream where the sun was so warm on his shoulders, where he could smell the new-cut grass, feel the soft late summer breeze on his face.

Good Lord! It was true! This was indeed a fairy ring! When he told No. He knew instantly he could not tell anyone. Ever. Even if this unknown child were to corroborate his story, he would be looked upon as mad, and his family would be shamed.

Abruptly he realized the girl had stopped dancing. And as quickly, the ethereal creatures vanished. The child stood there alone, staring at him, not frightened, but surprised. After a moment, she walked toward him purposefully.

"Are you spying on me?" she demanded. She had silvery-gray eyes that were too large for her small face. Nine or ten, John thought. She couldn't be older than that. A very slim girl with a long neck and delicate features.

"Who are you?"

"None of your busy-business! Who are you? What are you doing here?" A burst of breeze caught her hair and blew strands across her face. She impatiently pushed aside. The hair had a lot of wave in it, causing it to be unruly.

"I live here," he replied. "I mean, my family's home is over that way, a few miles. This circle" he could not bring himself to call it a fairy circle right now. "This place belongs to my family."

"Hmph. That must mean you are rich. Are you rich?" She peered up at him.

"I'm not," he retorted. "I'm the younger son."

"Oh. Too bad. I've got to go."

"Wait!" She halted at his words and looked back, waiting. "What–what about those creatures?"

The gray eyes narrowed a bit, a certain caginess pinching her mouth. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I saw when you were dancing there were things."

She cocked her head slightly, a flash of amusement in the gray eyes. "Things? What kind of things?"

"You saw them didn't you?"

"Saw what?" She was going to force him to say it.

So he did. "The fairies! The fairies that were dancing all around you!"

Her hands went into fists and poked against nonexistent hips, arms akimbo. The amusement was apparent now. "Are you daft? Fairies? Really! I expect they'll lock you away in Bedlam before long. Fairies!"

Feeling a little desperate, John ventured further. "But I saw you look at them, laugh with them."

"Really!" Scorn now. "Really! I think I'd best be going before you start turning into a werewolf or something. I expect you believe in them too. Really!"

And she turned and dashed across the meadow on feet so light she seemed almost not to touch the grass. For half an instant, John was going to follow her, even thought about mounting the stallion. But he remained where he was, watching. She paused by one of the standing stones over near the kirk, grabbed something from the ground–her attire more than likely–looked back toward him with a jaunty wave, and disappeared around the ruined building.

He never saw the child again. He made discreet inquiries, and learned that a number of young girls who normally resided in a London boarding school periodically were sent to this area to stay at the home of the sister of the headmistress, to get some country air. He had never gained the courage, however, to approach that home to try to talk to the girl further. Too many people would wonder why.

***

Lord John Roxton stole a glance at the woman reclining in the canvas chair, sipping the liquid through the straw poked into the coconut. She had been delighted when he produced the drink for her, even to inserting a jungle flower into the aperture along with the makeshift straw. Her eyes were closed at the moment as she luxuriously basked in the warm sun.

He had suggested this excursion to the beach for several reasons, foremost among which was simply a chance to be alone with the woman he loved more than life itself. These moments alone were few and far between, mostly because of the need to remain in a group for protection. But with Malone back, and Challenger and the writer working on the scientist's latest brainstorm for a water pump with a pipeline to the tree house, it had not taken much persuasion to convince Marguerite to come with him. The ordeals of the past few weeks caused all of them to require some sort of diversion.

Roxton also had an ulterior motive. He was going to try to find an opportunity to talk about Avebury. Her revelation that she had spent childhood time in his home area had been stunning, but there had not been time to discuss it further. They had other more important things to attend to, dealing with the demon warlord Seros, and bringing Ned Malone back from the dead. Since that day more than a week ago, the opportunity to discuss Avebury simply had not presented itself.

Roxton dabbed a last bit of sand on the ornate castle, smiling as he remembered her surprise a short while ago when she saw just how elaborate a structure he was putting together. He had told her how he and his parents and brother had spent holidays on the shore, and how his father had taught both his sons this esoteric art. And he had seen the sad longing in her gaze; she had never had such family excursions, he knew.

"It's not exactly Brighton Beach," Marguerite commented idly from her chair. "But it is a lovely day."

Roxton glanced at her again. "Aren't you glad we came?"

"I suppose I should say, we should come here more often." Her smile was sly, yet warm. She was not about to express her delight with this opportunity to be alone, he knew.

With a smile, he got to his feet and trod barefoot across the warm sand to her. "We should do it every day." He grasped her hand and pulled her out of the chair. "Come on. Let's go for a swim!"

She pulled away, gray eyes widening in horror. "Without a bathing costume?"

"Why not. We're all alone. It wouldn't be the first time." He gave her a sly look of his own.

She smiled with a memory. "True! But I hardly knew you then." 

"Three weeks and four days, to be exact." Her eyes widened slightly. He playfully took her hand and swung her toward the surf. She shrieked and caught herself just before reaching the water. "I must say," Roxton smiled, "I was surprised at how bold you were."

"Well, I was similarly impressed by what a gallant gentleman you could be, standing watch on the banks on the river, resolutely looking the other way." She was very close to him now, facing him, and her voice and eyes were very quiet.

"Took every ounce of restraint I had." He gazed softly at her. "Still does." 

She kissed him very gently, her lips like a silken feather on his. He took a deep breath, fighting against an urge to crush her into his arms. Not yet. 

"All right. I promise to keep my eyes closed." He crossed his fingers behind his back as he spoke, and turned away as she started to unbutton her blouse while facing the ocean..

Roxton looked toward the nearby jungle, and then reached back and tapped her shoulder. "Marguerite!" He ran toward their gear.

She turned to see a middle-aged man emerging from the jungle canopy. "Maybe we can just ignore him," she suggested, wanly but hopefully, following Roxton.

He knew what she meant. One more time an opportunity had been forestalled. "Or shoot him!" Angrily, Roxton grabbed his gun. "Who are you! And that's close enough!"


End file.
